I’m not a big fan of being “new” at things. I’d much prefer to just go ahead and wake up daily as an expert in my chosen field. Unfortunately, life just doesn’t work that way – our brains don’t magically download software at night.

I’ve been a newbie blogger for about five months now, taking baby steps each week or so toward being “legit,” with actual subscribers and such. Subscribers who aren’t married to me. Or share DNA. (Although I appreciate them SO much for always commenting and being supportive of my new hobby. I’m talking to YOU, Aunt Jan!)

As a total n00b, you can imagine my surprise when The Motherhood, as part of a partnership with Wendy’s, contacted me with a fun opportunity to meet and eat with some Kansas City area bloggers and offer a nifty giveaway to my readers.

The Motherhood – sounds a bit ominous, yes? I was relieved after doing some research to find out that there would be no midnight kidnappings, hazing, or secret rendezvous in underground caves. Instead, I found a great network of moms and a forum where we can discuss all manner of issues pertinent to our full-time, joyful and sometimes difficult calling.

Anyway, the plan was to get a few of us together at Wendy’s for a picnic and an opportunity to try the new Berry Almond Chicken Salad. This sounds great in theory, but as you might have noticed, the weather ’round these parts has been rather craptastic.

But meet we did, and decided that with the gloomy drizzle outside that we’d park our picnicking butts right there in the Wendy’s dining room.

Armed with strollers, huge carryall bags, and a small army of children, Kristen of Dine and Dish, Molly of A Day in Mollywood, Jenn of Super Jenn, Candy of Mommypalooza, Erin from Fit Mama Training and I drew curious stares from fellow diners as we proceeded to whip out our cameras and document every moment of the gathering.

Now, I’m used to being the people watcher, not the people being watched, so I’m not going to lie, it felt a little awkward at first. I felt the curious stares and was tempted to turn around and be all ”What? You don’t photograph your food before you eat it?” but as the veteran bloggers all seemed quite comfortable with the creative process,  I followed suit and proceeded to snap away at my bowl of warm grilled chicken, fresh blueberries and strawberries, and shaved asiago over crisp greens.

Monkey was not thrilled with the foodie photo shoot, so I kept handing him pieces of my salad here and there while I visited and photographed the event. By the time I was all set to sit and eat, I was left with two pieces of chicken, a slice of strawberry, a stray blueberry, some crunchy almonds and of course, the greens.

I scarfed down what I could before he could mooch any more, and I’ll admit, although I’m normally looking for something with lots of bacon and gobs of cheese on it when I go to Wendy’s, I found that the combination of fruit and greens, covered in a fat-free raspberry vinaigrette was quite tasty.

The fruit was fresh, not squishy, and there was a variety of greens instead of just some random romaine or, gasp, iceberg lettuce lining a plate. Paired with a cup of Wild Berry Tea, it was a nice summery lunch. (Did you see that, dear Mother Nature? S-U-M-M-E-R. Apparently, you did not get the memo.)

So, here’s the fun part for you – we’re going to play the picnic game and give away a Wendy’s gift card worth $25.

To enter, leave a comment with what you’d bring to a picnic, beginning with the letter “A” for the first comment, with each new comment continuing with the next letter on through the alphabet. If we end up past “Z” (oh, and please don’t bring any zealots to the picnic, they spoil everything), just start over with “A” again.

If you’d like an extra chance to win:

Tweet this message: I just entered to win a $25 Wendy’s gift card from @Mama_Mash and @Wendys! http://wp.me/p1gFWz-gs

                                  And/Or

Become a fan of mamamash on Facebook.

Be sure to come back and comment again to let me know you did. (And bring something else to the picnic!)

The winner will be chosen via Random.org. Entries must be received by midnight CST on Tuesday, June 7th 2011. The winner will be contacted by email on June 8th and have 48 hours to respond, otherwise a new winner will be chosen.

Wendy’s and The Motherhood provided me and my family with a picnic package and lunch and is providing the gift card for the giveaway. All opinions expressed in this post are my own.

A poem about starting over for MamaKat’s Writer’s Workshop.

Warnings heeded, we left you
Alone in the storm

Took what we could – not much
Dogs and photos, mostly

We watched the colors approach
While you felt the water rise

A week passed by, homeless
Before we saw you

Red brick, still standing strong
Insides out, upsides down

Saved what we could – not much
Metal, plastic and glass, mostly

Hauled the rest to the street
A lifetime of soggy memories

♦

Over the past two years, I’ve regularly dreamed about my house. My first house – all mine. Decorated in everything that symbolized me, all completely destroyed by rising waters. In each dream, I’ve rescued my home, repaired the damage, and carried on making memories within those walls – walls that were built by my family years before.

Two nights ago, for the first time, I dreamed we left the house. We took everything we could fit in boxes, bags and pockets while the walls began to crumble and the floor began to disappear under growing puddles of brackish water

But the house didn’t look the same. The details were wrong, as if I had forgotten them.

I think finally, after I’ve put  years and miles between my old home and my new one, after I’ve built a marriage and birthed a child, my subconscious is beginning to let go of my old life, one small piece at a time.

As part of A Belle, A Bean & A Chicago Dog’s Senior Hottie photo link-up, I’ve reached into my cavernous vault of bad hair photos to bring you this unwaxed treasure collection.

Late 90s. Ready for senior year in a podunk town where most of my classmates were dreaming of marrying their boyfriends and madly procreating. But not me. With my gold pinky ring, cross necklace and massive eyebrows, I was obviously going places.

Or not.

Prom time. Dressed appropriately for a street corner in Phuket in a dress my boyfriend picked out. Started putting on the freshman fifteen a few months early, so there’s duct tape involved here. Probably the last virgin in town.

Unfortunately for my date, that didn’t change for a few more years.

Graduation! Who gives a shit anymore? I have sparkly rings! I’ve been accepted to college, where I will, with any luck, lose the gold, the bushy brows, and the virginity.

Probably in that order.

I’m not shy anymore, and I hope you aren’t either! Dig out your photos and come link up!

We have rather large collection of big, dumb dogs who are capable of chewing through just about anything. Rubber toys are quick snacks and tires can last an entire day, though dog houses take nearly a week to consume.

Since we know our hounds will digest anything not made of adamantium, we try to give them “toys” that won’t cause intestinal blockage and lead to fun-filled trips to the doggie emergency room.

Now, the doctors in these establishments aren’t of the George Clooney variety, and certainly there is no brooding Goran Visnjic taking my pup’s vitals, instead we always end up with either a half-drunk geezer with a molting parrot or a fresh-out-of-vet-school girl who wants to run 87 tests to confirm that yes, the dog swallowed the Xbox controller without chewing first, and no, it’s not coming out the other end unassisted. So it’s not a fun trip, and certainly, in the second case, not cheap.

In an effort to prevent these midnight excursions, we give our four-legged poop factories things like hooves, pig ears, and marrow bones to chew, but their favorite treats are bully sticks.

Bully sticks aren’t cheap either, but from time to time I’ll pick them up on sale at the pet supply store, or my aunt will send some she’s found at a good price. Because they’re pricey, I hoard them, stored in a plastic bag in a box next to the back door, and only dole them out for special occasions.

Today, Monkey broke free of the living room gate and hurtled toward said door, taking a second to splash about in the water dish before raiding the “doggie box.” There was nothing of much interest at first, and then he found the big purple bag of bully sticks – a veritable baby jackpot, apparently, judging from the squeal of delight.

Frank came running when the baby pulled out the treats, and Murphy, the youngest of our pathetic pack of pit bulls, came giddily skipping up to the porch, both anticipating a stick of chewy goodness.

By this time, I had turned away from scrubbing a spaghetti-encrusted high chair tray, and noticed with concern that the baby was about to use his two tiny teeth to chew on a dog treat. (Yes, I stopped to take a photo, of course I did. You’ll see why in a bit.)

I’m sure many children have consumed a milk bone here and there, or probably even a handful of kibble as an afternoon nosh, and lived to tell the tale.

But bully sticks?

Bully sticks are dried bull penises, and therefore not an acceptable replacement for Gerber Graduates as a healthy toddler snack.

Quit looking at me like that, dog. I am trying to protect you. You’re too sweet to fight back when he yanks, pulls, and chews on you, and I can’t make him understand that your penis isn’t detachable.

All morning long I’ve listened to yelps of protest followed by maniacal baby laughter as my progeny “loved” on his puppy. The dog is either too nice or too stupid to run away, so I thought I was helping earlier when I put the dog in his kennel for a bit while I picked up the house.

It was either him or the baby, and I didn’t think the baby would fit.

Fast forward to after lunch, and I’m wrangling a toddler into diaper-change position on the floor. I pull off the avocado-smeared outfit, slide off the diaper and…I forgot to get a clean one.

I hand the baby a toy to distract him, leap up and snatch a clean diaper out of the basket, and turn on my heel to discover my son has made it clear across the room and has pulled up, naked, on the dog kennel.

I pause for a fraction of a second to admire the cute bare bottom and in that same second realize that the lack of cloth on the bum means that the front is armed and dangerous. In slow motion, I reach out my hand, take one giant step forward, yell out my son’s name in a sing-song voice, as not to startle him…

And that, dear friends, is the story of how my son peed on my dog.

This post is linked to Lovelinks #8. Link up!